Clue
by madri
Summary: Six people walk into the Boddy mansion for a party. Only one of them walks out.


A/N: I wrote this story about a year ago. I didn't know where the idea came from then, and I don't know now.

Coincidentally, any characters or concepts you recognize? Not mine. I make no profit from this other than some cheap thrills.

Also, I just really like AU fic. I was thinking about doing a whole series, but... other board games don't have characters. So that was kinda hard.

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The young woman stood outside the front door of the mansion. It was raining, as one might expect; stories such as this often begin with rain. Usually there is also lightning, and this case is no exception.

She drew the cigarette from her lips, a trail of smoke just visible in the soft amber light that bathed the porch. She reached over impatiently, slamming the knocker against the door harder this time. It was cold, and her low-cut dress did not offer much respite from the dismal weather.

Her name was Wanda Frank, but hardly anybody knew that anymore. Some called her the Lady in Red; mostly, she was known simply as Miss Scarlet. Today, she was not alone.

An elderly woman stood beside her, hunched over, supporting herself with a cane. Her hair was as white as powdered snow, her thin frame was draped in long, dangling shawls, and her face was lost in shadow. As little as was known about Miss Scarlet, even less was known about this old woman who was often seen to accompany her. She'd earned the moniker "Mrs. White," and most people assumed she was Miss Scarlet's mother, an assumption she seemed to encourage.

Miss Scarlet dropped the butt of the cigarette on the ground and delicately crushed it under her bright red pump. "What's taking so goddamn long?" She reached to knock again, but just before her hand could close on the knocker, the door was swung open.

"Good evening, mam'selle," said the man who answered it in the worst faux British accent Miss Scarlet had ever heard (which, surprisingly, was indeed saying a lot). When she looked closer at him, she realized he wasn't a man so much as practically a boy, and she forgave him a bit. Besides, he was cute. "Madam." He nodded to Mrs. White. "Sorry to keep you waiting. Shall I take your... er..." He trailed off upon seeing they had no coats. "Er. Right this way." He motioned them inside, shutting the door behind them.

"I'm Drake, Mr. Boddy's butler," he explained, leading them through the opulent vestibule. Miss Scarlet was much too dignified to gawp, and Mrs. White kept her head down, the gentle _clop clop_ of her cane on the hard marble floor the only sound besides Drake's voice to be heard. "The other guests are waiting in the parlor."

He opened the door and bowed them in. Miss Scarlet turned to thank him, but he was gone, the door shut.

The four people already in the room were staring at the new arrivals. Nearest them was the tall, slender, redheaded Jean Scott, whose penchant for eclectic, flamboyant dress combined with her renowned egotism and vanity had earned her the nickname "Mrs. Peacock;" nearby, her husband, Colonel Edward Scott, often called "Colonel Mustard" because he was rarely seen without his dull, mustard-colored uniform, and who was rumored to have a stick up his ass at all times; further back, "Professor Plum," who was really Professor Henry McCoy, but called otherwise because he was thought to be plum crazy; and Warren Worthington III, who, as a result of his financial prowess, formidability, and ruthlessness, was widely known as "Mr. Green."

After an awkward silence, Mr. Green stepped forward, taking Miss Scarlet's hand and kissing the back of it. "_Enchanté_, mademoiselle," he said, charmingly. "Warren Worthington III, at your service."

"Ah, yes, I've heard of you." Miss Scarlet nodded knowingly. "Mr. Green, they call you."

"So you do know me." He grinned a thousand-watt smile.

"Only your reputation." She fired back with her best half-smirk, putting a fresh cigarette to her ruby glossed lips.

"Here, let me," offered Colonel Mustard, moving forward to light it, ever the gentleman. Mrs. Peacock shot a glare at Miss Scarlet that was hot enough to kill. Colonel Mustard remained oblivious.

"Thank you." A beat. "My, those are some unusual spectacles," Miss Scarlet said flirtatiously, leaning in more closely to examine them.

"Ruby quartz," Colonel Mustard said, clearing his throat. In the warm low light of the room, their red almost didn't clash with the much duller uniform. "I have a, uh. Special problem. With my eyes." He quickly put some distance between himself and her. Mrs. Peacock instantly wrapped herself around his arm, smirking darkly at Miss Scarlet.

Miss Scarlet narrowed her eyes briefly, then turned her attention to the rest of the room. "Why, in fact, I do believe I know most of you by reputation. You're the one they call Professor Plum, am I right?"

"You are right, Miss Scarlet, if I'm not mistaken." He put down the book he'd had his nose in. "You're well-known with many of my colleagues," he added, by way of explanation.

She grinned, flicking her eyes up and down his rather large form. "Oh yes. I'm a big fan of... learning."

Mrs. Peacock's eye roll was practically audible.

So, however, was Mr. Green's leer.

"I don't know about you," Mrs. Peacock broke in loudly, "but I could go for another glass of wine. Where is that butler?"

Almost as if on cue, Drake entered the room just seconds later with a tray of glasses, which he handed around. Miss Scarlet could have been mistaken, but she swore she saw tiny, light ice crystals form around the glass while it was in Drake's hand. Either way, the drink was perfectly chill when she sipped it.

"Dinner will be served shortly," he said, bowing his way out.

There was another awkward silence. Then Mr. Green tried to break into small talk with Miss Scarlet again. "And who is this beautiful woman?" He nodded towards Mrs. White, who had stood near Miss Scarlet this whole time, hunched over her cane.

"My mother," Miss Scarlet replied. "She goes by Mrs. White. She's quite elderly and very hard of hearing."

"Oh?" Mr Green leaned Mrs White's ear. "Lovely to meet you, Mrs. White."

"Eh?" Her shrill, cracked response caused Mr Green to jerk backwards, a hand to his offended ear.

"She... she certainly is charming." He stretched his broad shoulders a bit, rubbing at his back as if it pained him before taking a seat next to Professor Plum on the couch, who had returned to the book. "So," he said conversationally to the Professor, who looked up at him with exasperation, "how do you know our host?"

"Boddy, you mean?" He removed his spectacles with one paw-like hand, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with the other. "He makes huge contributions to the university every year under the name Charles Xavier. I always thought that was his real name."

"It isn't?" Colonel Mustard frowned. "He was my drill instructor. Major Charles Xavier." He rubbed his chin. He looked to Mr. Green. "What about you?"

"Xavier, Boddy, what's in a name?" Mr. Green shrugged. "I've done business with the man a few times before." And then he turned to Miss Scarlet. "You?"

"Obviously he must be one of her clients," Mrs. Peacock hissed.

Miss Scarlet looked at her angrily. "Actually..." her look softened, almost to sadness, "he was an old friend of my father's."

Suddenly, Mrs. White started coughing. The coughing turned to hacking. Everyone else looked on, alarmed, as though the old women were going to drop dead right there.

"Oh, dear. Excuse us! She just needs some fresh air." Miss Scarlet ushered her mother out the door of the room into the hall. Instead of going outside, however, she pulled Mrs. White through a nearby door into a small adjacent room.

She flicked on the light once the door was shut. A large, rather dusty billiard table occupied the center of the small room. Miss Scarlet pushed Mrs. White up against the door. "What? _What_ is the matter with you?" she demanded angrily.

"_Me_?" The voice that answered was neither elderly nor feminine, but it was extremely indignant. Mrs White ripped the shawl off her head and threw it on the ground, and if anybody else had been in the room, it would have become very clear that "Mrs. White" was most certainly not Miss Scarlet's elderly mother. "Why are you shooting off your mouth like that, Wanda?"

"I didn't 'shoot off my mouth,' Peter," Wanda shot back.

"'Actually, he was a friend of my father's,'" Peter mimicked mockingly, disgusted. "What were you _thinking_?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Wanda glared. "That doesn't tell them anything."

"Yes. It does." Peter plucked off a few of the other scarves and hiked up his skirts. "It tells them more than they need to know."

"Nobody has ever connected us to Magnus, and nobody ever will." She crossed her arms over her chest defiantly.

"That doesn't mean we have to take stupid risks." He jabbed a finger at her. "There's a reason we never go around as brother and sister."

"You know what, Peter, shut your mouth." She threw her hands up, exasperated. "Maybe I shouldn't have said it, but you certainly shouldn't have made a scene like that."

Peter frowned. "Look. Let's forget this. Let's just go back in there and hope nobody realizes anything."

Wanda snatched up his shawl irritably and threw it at him. "Brilliant idea, Master of Everything." Once he was suitably Mrs. White'd again, she jerked open the door, and gasped.

Drake was standing just outside the door, hands behind his back, as if waiting for inspection. "Dinner is served, Miss Scarlet, Mrs. White."

_Clop, clop, clop_.

The others were already seated around the table, Colonel Mustard, Mrs. Peacock, and Professor Plum on one side, Mr. Green and two empty seats at the other. Mr. Green and Colonel Mustard jumped to their feet when Miss Scarlet and Mrs. White entered the room; Professor Plum followed a moment later, when he came to his senses.

Drake helped old Mrs. White hobble into her seat, and Mr. Green pulled back the chair for Miss Scarlet, looking down the front of her dress the whole while. She politely pretended not to notice.

Mrs. Peacock put up no such pretenses, however. Colonel Mustard, sensing her irritation, placed his hand on top of hers comfortingly. She gave him a small smile and remained silent.

Drake bustled out again, but returned almost immediately, pushing a wheelchair before him. In that wheelchair was a rather frail old man with a wool blanket draped over his legs.

"I suppose you're all wondering why I called you here today." He coughed, a dry, brittle cough that racked his whole body. Drake handed him a glass of cognac, which he sipped gently. "You see, it's because—" And before he could get another word out, his whole body seized up, and he fell forward on the table.

Everybody sat there, staring at him, for a moment. Finally, when he didn't budge, Professor Plum jumped up and moved to his side. He pulled Mr. Boddy upright, then checked for vitals. He looked back at the others and announced, "He's dead!"

That was when the belated panic finally broke out. Mr. Green jumped up to inspect the body too. Mrs. Peacock shrieked in a half-faint against Colonel Mustard. Miss Scarlet and Mrs. White exchanged dark glances. "Are you certain?" the former asked, moving to inspect the body as well.

"Positive, Miss Scarlet. I know a dead body when I see it."

She pulled out another cigarette and lit it, waving the match out before dropping it on the tabletop. "There's no way he can be dead."

"The Professor said he was dead," Mrs. Peacock broke in, "so he's dead. The important thing now is to figure out what killed him."

"Didn't you hear the way he was hacking?" remarked Mr Green dogmatically, lighting a cigar of his own. "The old man sounded like he was missing a lung."

"No, he had a bit of a cough, that was it," Drake spoke up suddenly. Everybody seemed to have forgotten his presence. He moved further into the room, to Boddy's body. He seemed melancholy, almost regretful, as he stared at his former employer.

"Well, he is—was quite old," Mr. Green went on, waving his cigar dismissively. "Happens all the time."

"Will you shut up," Miss Scarlet snapped, tapping her fingers against her hip impatiently. "Look. I say we call the police." And before anybody else could answer, she had moved to the phone just outside dining room. Dazed, everyone else trailed after.

She lifted the phone off the hook. Then paused, frowning. She tapped the hook several times before turning to the others. "It's dead."

"Let me see that." Mrs. Peacock snatched it from her hand and listened. "It _is_ dead."

Miss Scarlet snatched it right back, then slammed it back onto the cradle. "Then somebody has to drive to the police station. Or the hospital. Or _something_."

"Wait a minute." Professor Plum tapped his chin thoughtfully. "What did Boddy do right before he died?"

Mr. Green hacked, by way of a reenactment. "'I bet you're wondering why I called you all here today!'"

"No, no." Professor Plum waved a hand. "He took a drink from his glass."

Their heads all snapped around to Drake, who stared back, nonplussed. "...What?"

"What did you serve him?" Colonel Mustard demanded.

"It was just a bit of cognac with some almond oil!" Drake cried, all traces of his faux accent lost. "He has some every night!"

"You don't think...?" Mrs. Peacock trailed off, looking aghast.

"Almond oil..." Professor Plum led the charge back into the dining room. He picked up the glass by Boddy's hand, swirled it around, and sniffed at it. "Well, I don't _smell_ anything particularly out of the ordinary, but many deadly poisons are—"

"_Poison_?" Drake was indignant. "Look here, I'd know if it was poisoned, and it is most certainly not poisoned." He grabbed the glass from Professor Plum's hand and took a sip. "See? Not poi—" His words were cut off by his sudden death. He fell face forward against the table, his body stiff like a board.

Mrs. Peacock shrieked and half-fainted again. Everyone else stared, aghast.

"Just as I suspected. Calcium cyanide. Very deadly." The liquid had spilled when Drake fell, and the stain on the carpet was spreading fast.

"Whoever heard of cognac with almond oil," remarked Mr. Green, shaking his head.

"Oh, who cares who's heard of it! He's _dead_ you twit!" Mrs. Peacock now seemed mostly conscious again and was in something near hysterics.

"No, wait." Professor Plum raised a finger. "He makes a good point. Who would have known that Boddy takes almond oil in his cognac? That is a rather bizarre combination. But the killer knew."

"How do we know he knew?" Miss Scarlet demanded impatiently, stubbing out her cigarette in Mrs. Peacock's nearly empty glass.

"Because calcium cyanide has a faint almond odor," Professor Plum explained. "It's soluble in water. The killer would have just had to find the right opportunity to drop some in."

"You seem to know an awful lot about poisons, Professor," Mr. Green pointed out accusingly.

"He's a _professor_, you idiot," Miss Scarlet snapped. "I'm going to get the police."

Colonel Mustard stepped in her path. "Nobody's leaving, Miss Scarlet."

"What? Why not?"

"What if you're the killer?" shrieked Mrs. Peacock.

"Don't be ridiculous! I'm not the killer." She made to step around the Colonel. He stepped with her. "Bloody hell. Out of my way!"

"So far, you're the most suspect, Miss Scarlet," Professor Plum said. "You and your mother."

She turned to him. "How dare you say that!"

"It's the truth. What Boddy drinks is a very personal detail, something only someone with intimate knowledge of the man would have known. The rest of us only knew Boddy in a professional capacity. You knew him on a more personal level. You said he was a friend of your father's."

"Now wait just a minute!" Miss Scarlet was cut off by Mrs. White coughing loudly and pointedly, once, twice, three times: Peter's way of saying "I told you so." She shot him a nasty look. "Look. I am not responsible for Mr. Boddy's _or_ Drake's deaths. And somebody needs to get the police!"

"Not until we know who is responsible for this!" Mr. Green declared.

"This is madness!" Miss Scarlet shouted. "The police can figure out who is responsible! If the six of us stay shut up in here and one of us is a _killer_ then more of us are liable to end up _dead_!"

"Why don't we _all_ go to the police _together_?" Mr. Green suggested, running out of patience.

"What if the driver is the killer!" cried Mrs. Peacock.

"She's right." Colonel Mustard seemed ready to take charge. "We'll have to figure out who the killer is before any of us can leave."

"This is ridiculous!" Miss Scarlet was beside herself. "Don't you see? That's probably what the killer _wants_! We're all going to die!"

"You seem to know an awful lot about it, Miss Scarlet," Colonel Mustard fired back. "And you also seem to be in a real hurry to get out of here."

"Because I don't want to die!"

Mrs. White placed a hand comfortingly on Miss Scarlet's shoulder and patted it, handing her a cigarette. She snatched it, annoyed, and lit up.

"So what are we going to do now?" Mrs. Peacock demanded.

"Wait for someone to confess," Professor Plum said. "Let's go back to the parlor. Make ourselves comfortable." And without waiting for an answer, he slipped out of the room and back to the parlor. The others followed. When Mrs. White was alone in the room, Peter dropped the pretenses, zipping into the kitchen faster than a human should have the right to move. He collected a lot of food, which he hid amongst his many shawls, then he raced across the hall as Miss Scarlet was about to slip into the room. She glared at him suspiciously, but said nothing. Clearly, she had not really even noticed his absence, and thus, nobody else had.

"I need to use the lady's room," Mrs. Peacock announced. She removed herself from the room, brushing moodily past Miss Scarlet on her way out.

"Hey, wait, nobody should be alone—!" Colonel Mustard hurried after her.

"A place as big as this has got to have two bathrooms," Mr. Green pointed out, and he slipped away as well.

"So much for waiting for a confession," Miss Scarlet remarked.

Mr. Green found a large, empty room, the door to which he locked. He removed his jacket and his shirt, and then unbound his wings, which stretched the span of the room. He flexed them a bit, stretching them out—the binds had been too constricting. Then, after a moment, he quickly rebound them and dressed again, slipping out of the room before anybody could see him. He had work to do.

Back in the parlor, Professor Plum had lost himself in a book again. He reached back for his glass on the table, taking the book in his feet and continuing to read while doing so. He picked up the glass and almost took a drink, but stopped himself. No sense in taking chances.

"That's quite a talent," Miss Scarlet remarked. Mrs. White munched quietly and discreetly on a buttered roll.

"What?" Professor Plum looked up, turning the page with his foot. It was only then that he realized what he was doing. "Oh yes," he said dismissively. "Years of practice and whatnot. I wonder if this place has any Twinkies."

"What's a Twinkie?"

Mrs. Peacock returned then, alone. "Where did everyone go?"

She had addressed Professor Plum, but it was Miss Scarlet who answered curtly. "Mr. Green went to do his business, and your husband went looking for you."

Mrs. Peacock blanched. "He what?"

"He went looking for you," Miss Scarlet repeated, taking another sharp drag on her cigarette, which was practically burnt to nothing.

"But he never found me!" Mrs. Peacock was wild-eyed. "Don't you see? Green could be the killer! My husband could be dead!"

Miss Scarlet had, in truth, not thought of it that way. "What do we do? Wait for them to come back?"

"Are you insane? Have you not just heard a word I said? I bet Green is the killer!" She was practically in hysterics. "We have to look for him! And fast!"

That was when the lights went out.

"Perfect," Miss Scarlet couldn't help remarking to the darkness.

"There were candles in the dining room," came Professor Plum's voice from the darkness.

The four of them trudged back there, and the Professor lit three, handing one to Mrs. Peacock and one to Miss Scarlet. He kept the last himself, and pocketed a couple more and a book of matches. "Shall we?"

"We should split up," Mrs. Peacock said, still hysterical. "And that way we can cover more ground quickly. What if he's already dead?"

"What, split up into groups of two? I'd have to stay with my mother, and if Plum here's the killer, you'd be in a—say. That's not such a bad idea. All right."

"_I_'m not the killer," Professor Plum remarked indignantly. "But what if _she_ is?"

"Don't be insane!" Mrs. Peacock spat. "I am a lady."

"And I'm a whore with more money than you; so?" Miss Scarlet was impatient. "Let's just stay together." She moved out of the room and began peeking in the rooms on the ground floor.

There was no sign of either Mr. Green or Colonel Mustard in any of them. "So they're upstairs or down in the cellar. Or gone."

This seemed to be a realization that was just now dawning on the others. "That rat!" Mrs Peacock burst out. "That rat Green probably killed my husband and then ran off!" She burst into sobs.

"Oh, shut up! We don't even know if he's dead or if Green's the killer. Come on. We'll look upstairs." Her barely visible silhouette moved across the large hall to the stairs, and she started up them. The others followed.

They found Mr. Green's body in the library. He'd been hit over the head with a lead pipe. The weapon was still sitting by his lifeless body. About two yards away from him, on the wall, was a painting that had been swung open like a door. Behind it was a safe, hanging open and empty.

Mrs. Peacock screamed. "Oh my god!"

Miss Scarlet inspected the scene. "Well that settles it. The killer's your boy." She turned to Mrs. Peacock pointedly.

"That settles nothing!" Mrs. Peacock was shocked and irate. "What if it was one of you?"

"Don't be thick; all of us were together."

"You could all be in cahoots!" She backed towards the door. "You're all going to kill me now, aren't you?"

Miss Scarlet was disgusted. "Do you listen to yourself talk, honestly?"

"Stop it!" And then she turned and fled.

Miss Scarlet turned to the others, exasperated, and sighed. "I vote the three of us beat it ASAP."

"What about Mrs. Peacock? If Mustard is the killer, she's in real danger," Professor Plum pointed out.

"Good riddance," Miss Scarlet scoffed. "And Mustard would only kill her if he's _really_ gone off the deep end."

"Which he seems to have done," Professor Plum replied. "Look, I'm going to go look for her."

"It's not safe," Miss Scarlet pointed out. "Let's just _go_. Green's dead, Drake's dead, Boddy's dead. Staying here is signing your own death certificate."

"Leave then," Plum said, jerking his head towards the door. He pointed at the pipe lying next to Green's body. "I'll take that with me. To protect myself. Go. I won't pick it up until you're gone."

Miss Scarlet stared at him, dumbfounded, but was through with trying to reason. She looked back to the corpse on the ground. "Come on," she said to Mrs. White, not taking her eyes off Mr. Green. "Let's get out of here." She turned and lead the way out of the room, the usual _clop clop_ of the cane deadened to a _thump thump_ on the carpet.

Once they were gone, Professor Plum grabbed the pipe and headed out as well.

Miss Scarlet held the candle before her. It barely illuminated the hall, stretching the shadows into giant monsters that loomed on all sides. The storm outside continued to rage. She was so focused on her fear that she didn't hear when the steady _thump thump_ behind her came to an abrupt end.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she turned to speak—and there was no one there. She glanced around, suddenly panicked. "Mrs. White?" she hissed into the darkness. "Mrs. White?" No response. "Peter?" Her voice rose. "Peter, this isn't funny!"

The door to the billiard room just down from the stairs shut abruptly then. She jumped, a hand clutched to her heart. She hadn't even seen anyone; it must be Peter.

She opened the door carefully, peering in. The room seemed to be empty. She walked in all the way. "Peter? Peter, this is _not funny_. Where are—"

The question hung before her, half-finished, when something rough came at her from behind—a rope, a _noose_, pulled tight around her neck, choking, burning, blacking her out—

Professor Plum was having no luck finding Mrs. Peacock or her murderous husband, but he thought he heard something coming from one of the rooms. It was an upstairs parlor, and it seemed to be empty. He stepped further in, holding his flickering candle to the shadows. Then he saw it—a bloody candlestick next to the body of a white-haired young man dressed as a decripit old woman. Mrs. White. Peter Frank. He spun around sharply. This had to have been recent. But there was no one to be seen.

He searched the room more carefully. That was when he took a closer look at the painting on the wall. He remembered the painting in the library, how there had been a safe behind it. He pulled on this painting, and it swung open too. Behind it was a gaping black chasm. He moved the candle light to it: a passageway. The killer must have gone through it.

He stepped gingerly inside, pulling the painting shut behind him. He held the pipe firmly in one hand and the candle before him in the other. He walked slowly, throwing glances behind him often. The passageway sloped down and around. Quite abruptly, it dead-ended.

He took the last two steps to the wall to examine it—and the ground beneath him thudded hollowly. He was standing on a trap door. He pulled it open, crouching down to see what was below. He was about seven feet above the floor of the conservatory. The roof sloped around at odd angles. The rain pattered against the glass; the plants were barely visible in the dim light.

He jumped spryly down. He never heard the gunshot that killed him.

"Thomas!"

Colonel Mustard heard the cry, and turned. Mrs. Peacock flung herself into his arms. "I've been looking everywhere for you! There was a gunshot! Did you hear it?"

He clung back to her tightly. "Yes. I was so worried. I didn't want to leave without you. Somebody... I went to look for you, and somebody hit me over the head. I was so dazed. I couldn't leave without you."

"They think you're the killer!" Mrs. Peacock cried.

Colonel Mustard pulled back a bit. "What?"

"I told them it couldn't be true," she sobbed. "I know you would never."

"Oh. Oh darling." He pulled her tight again.

"And besides, I know who the killer is." She was beside herself.

"You do?" He looked her squarely in the eye. "Who is it?"

Colonel Mustard jerked back when the knife pierced his flesh. "Me." The knife clattered to the floor and his body slumped after it. He stared up at his wife, and though his eyes were hidden behind ruby quartz, the expression on his face was unmistakable—pain, inside and out, and utmost betrayal.

Mrs. Peacock grinned at him wickedly. She stepped over his body and started on her way to the door. Raven Darkholme did not change back into her normal blue form as she walked out into the rain and put up her umbrella. Six people had entered the Boddy mansion for a party. Only Jean Scott left. But it was okay; when they found her body buried in the bushes, she'd be absolved of any guilt anyway.

Raven silently congratulated herself on a job well done. 


End file.
